there is something here.

the grass comes,
the body over it,
by foot,

and the whole body too,
carried on each step
arrives

in this place where
being is...

i do not know.

what should i say it is?

i have been,
i suppose,
and felt over me pass:

rain snow love the touch of my wife
the small sound of my daughter breathing
the occasional drip of laughing
alcohol and the warm warm warm
folding of my heart into manifolds
of hands over all things of being
perhaps holding the wheel of a car
(and how do you drive?)
or the tepid root of a glass of wine
or the shout passed immediately from
my lips at some transgression of my son.

i think i feel something
(is it the windcold
or the hot jet
of a faucet?)

i do not suppose to know.

i move
(i guess)
being something

Here.